


in childish plays

by clayisforgirls



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"an insulted Novak is an entertaining one and though they’re definitely causing a scene and more than a few stares, he can’t quite contain the laughter"</p><p>The first year the World Tour Finals were in London, there was actually a fairground where the practice courts are now. Originally posted in December 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in childish plays

Hat pulled low over his eyes, he steps out into the low hum of the arena. It's not busy - he doesn't expect it to be on a weekday afternoon - but he doesn't want to be recognised even though his face is in the process of being plastered to every flat surface possible. Four years of seeing his photo everywhere he turns when he's in London and it's still more than a little creepy, especially when it's at least four foot big. History has told him it's easier to hide and so he does, albeit under a still fairly conspicuous cap.

What's making it worse is Novak Djokovic bouncing along at his side, not caring who recognises him (again with the four foot posters, otherwise he doesn't think they'd have a clue), to the point where he's still dressed in almost full tennis gear, bright red trainers squeaking against the floor. They're attracting a few stares, mostly of the ‘I know you from somewhere but I don't know where' variety, and Andy's glad that it's not Roger or Rafael that's killing free time with him. The Brits may love him during Wimbledon, love supporting him until he loses and become Scottish, but it's the champions they love the most.

"You want anything, Andy?" Novak says, cutting into his thoughts with carefully thought out words because no matter how much he speaks English it's never quite perfect like Novak would want, and he's disappeared through the doors into corporate coffee land before Andy's had a chance to answer. He sighs but he's not surprised, he's known Novak a long time and he knows the Serb can be hard work and yet he still says yes to stupid things like walking around the outside of a tennis arena in the middle of the day, three days before the tournament is meant to begin. There's a almost wish he'd just stayed in the comfort of his locker room but forty five minutes had seemed a lot longer when he'd had nothing to do, the PSP safely back in his hotel room because he didn't think he'd need it. The thought of free Starbucks appeases him a little, along with Novak's very own brand of entertaininment.

Coffee's place into his hand, a smile of thanks offered before he smells the coffee, the bitter-sweet taste overwhelming his sense and maybe it's a little sweeter than he likes it but he's not going to complain. Because, free.

Until he tastes it, that is, the overwhelming taste of vanilla rather than coffee and caramel vanilla crap almost comes spraying out of his mouth. He knows there's laughter in Novak's eyes, can feel his mirth even before he meets his eyes and as he takes the (hopefully) correct coffee from the outstretched hand he can't keep it in any longer, a smile breaking out across his face and when Andy raises an eyebrow because really Novak, are you twelve? it all comes spilling out. He's still wary as he takes his first sip, can feel dark eyes watching him, and he hopes that Novak isn't quite mean enough to buy him coffee that he knows he hates.

Apparently hanging out with Safin hasn't completely bastardised him because this one is actually his favourite order, slight surprise that Novak actually remembers because it's been a long time, maybe years, since they did this. Warmth seeps into his body which despite the unseasonably warm day, is on the wrong side of cold, and he wishes he'd thought to bring a jacket.

"Drink up," Novak says, nudging him with an elbow as they walk towards nothing in particular, offering him a sticky looking pastry thing and he grimaces because it's just the kind of thing that Novak would buy, "I might buy another one for you."

"Not much incentive if I know you're just going to give me crap," he teases, but it doesn't quite translate as Novak frowns, and as he's about to apologise, maybe explain because it wasn't intended to be harsh, it's shrugged off, and the silence washes over them again. It's comfortable, he remembers doing this in their days of juniors, sneaking off from under the watchful eyes of their coaches to just explore a city they might never come back to. It doesn't feel the same as an adult though, especially not London because it's almost like a home away from home. They could be in any city in the world right now, at least one where corporations rule, because there's nothing distinctly London about the O2.

"You have plans for Christmas?" Novak asks around a mouthful of pastry which sounds as disgusting in his mouth as it looked in his hand. He might love their coffee, the perfect blend of bitterness and caffeine, but even training in Miami can't make him partial to the food Starbucks serves; the fact that he knows he shouldn't be eating it doesn't offset how bland it is. Novak doesn't seem to notice though and happily takes another bite, pastry flakes falling off onto his shirt and Andy has the urge to brush them off, much like a mother would do to a child. Sometimes he supposes that Novak isn't much more than that, the childish streak which in him is used for making bets and playing for forfeits doesn't have an obvious outlet in his friend other than the silly jokes he plays on his friends. And sometimes his enemies.

"Just going to see my mum and Jamie," he says finally, because it's true. There'll be no girlfriends this year, can tell that Kim is all too close to breaking up with him because they're drifting apart, and there's no way that mum will let Jamie's girlfriend in the house to spoil their family Christmas.

"Your girlfriend going to be there?" Novak asks, a perfectly innocent question but the smirk on his face belies his innocence. Bastard.

"Hear you're going skiing with Safin," because that might work, a total change of topic before the Gossip Girl of the ATP tells everyone on tour that Andy Murray's girlfriend dumped him and he's not even good enough for the daughter of a coach. It might not be Novak's intention to make the rumour hurt but words are tricky when everyone speaks a different English, and the more people he will tell - eventually everyone, though not as fast as word would have spread if Safin were still playing - the more it will become distorted and he sees a future with Roger Federer asking him if he really does have six toes on each foot.

Perhaps not Roger, too much of a gentleman to ask anyone that, but there are many people who'd take any opportunity to find flaws in the world number four.

It occurs to him then there's been silence, Novak staring into his cup of corporate non-coffee crap like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

"Yeah," he finally says, taking a drink and Andy can see how uncomfortable he is talking about that and maybe he's just stumbled onto something interesting, Novak is dating Marat Safin except no one's that stupid, "should be interesting."

He amends that to he hopes no one's that stupid because while he - and everyone else - can appreciate the man's good looks, trying to date him is a whole different story. They've both seen how he's treated his numerous girlfriends and occasional boyfriends and he definitely doesn't want to be any part of that. Although maybe him and Novak would be a perfect fit, there's nothing better than sex echoes in his head, and he can definitely see why Novak might pick Safin if that's all he's interested in.

"Only couples go skiing Novak; you planning to become his next girlfriend? I've heard stories."

"The whole fucking tour has heard stories," and the giggles break on fucking, because Marat's tour is different from everyone else's; it's basically a revolving fuck wheel of broken hearts and tiny moments of hope and apparently amazing sex, "I think he just wants to sleep with me."

"Don't flatter yourself; you're not that good looking. Maybe you're his final pity fuck. A final farewell to the tour."

It's meant to be provoking and it works. One hand on his hip, the other wildly gesturing at Andy in a less than friendly way, stream of indignant Serbian that Andy can't even begin to translate (he only knows how to say one thing and though yebie se is mostly likely in the seemingly endless insults, he's speaking too fast to pick up anything); Novak's a perfect picture of petulance and outrage at his comment. Which was exactly the point, an insulted Novak is an entertaining one and though they're definitely causing a scene and more than a few stares, he can't quite contain the laughter.

The resulting look he gets from Novak just makes him laugh harder, the childish storm off even more and he's still laughing as he jogs after the Serb, no apology waiting to be given because he doesn't need one. They've always been like this, they've perfected the art of retaliation, one by practical jokes, and the other with harsh words and in their early years they'd attracted looks from the rest of the teens, the first year on the main tour together alienating more than their fair share of players with their childish antics. And it's always been fun, the petty fights not really meaning anything and each time they'd found a way to push the other just that little bit further over the edge.

They'd drifted apart, if asked they'd both say it was due to their rise up the rankings, the commitments with sponsors and tournaments and for their countries, but if Andy's being honest with himself he'd say that it was his fault; Novak's comments and jokes were hitting too close to home, he'd put the distance between them to stop himself from getting hurt just like he always did. He could see the signs, Novak walking away from him and their friendship just like everyone else in his life had done, and it was so much easier to be the one in control than the one who with the best will in the world couldn't change a damn thing.

Novak's waiting for him at the edge of a multitude of neon lights, the colours almost too bright for the middle of the afternoon and they remind him of his first trip to Soho, him and his friends walking down tiny alleyways with lights at the end flashing every colour of the rainbow to welcome him into a world of sin; later on he'd been taken out the back way, the same lights dancing underneath his eyes as he'd been sucked off, and creating ever changing patterns on skin as he'd returned the favour.

The fair the lights belong to is almost the exact opposite of Soho but with Novak standing there the effect almost seems the same, the temptation of something that should be forbidden. In Soho it was the loss of innocence, he wanted to prove to the world that he could be a world class tennis player and still suck cock. With Novak it's partly the neon lights enticing him, but it's partly something that crept up on him four years ago, something that he's tried to forget but hasn't quite managed. That he wanted to kiss Novak Djokovic when he was still a teenager and in those rare moments when he's between consciousness and sleep, he still does.

Stupidly he allows Novak to lead him into a world he hasn't experienced since he was a child, his brother egging him on to ride the waltzers and Jamie laughing at him when he'd been sick on his shoes afterwards. The fair doesn't hold the same magic as it did when he was ten, the atmosphere feels somehow different, less special but it doesn't make Novak's excitement any less fun. Wonders if Novak had funfairs when he was a kid, got to experience the thrill of the baby rollercoaster and the dodgems and candy floss that made his fingers sticky but doesn't want to ask because maybe it's just one of those things that makes Andy feel lucky he wasn't a child in a country where you were lucky to sleep through the night.

Or maybe it's just Novak being Novak. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between childishness and wanting to live a childhood you never had.

"What do you want do ride?" Andy asks as they're halfway through the fair, Novak veering towards a stall which sells everything from curry to candyfloss on a stick, the Serb opting for the latter and has pink fuzz sticking out of and around his mouth before he answers with a shrug, a vague wave in the direction of something that spins and he wonders if he's told Novak the waltzers story in a moment of inebriation or it's just a huge coincidence.

Smug written all over his face but that's nothing new, and Andy can't decide between the options.

They walk past the spinning ride, Andy almost turning green with sympathy as he sees the kids walk off it, their balance unsteady and no matter what Novak promises, there is no way in hell he's being dragged onto that ride. Not even if he offered to give him a blowjob a day for the rest of his life.

Thankfully there's something else that's caught Novak's eye, attention captured by the moving mechanical models as his tongue darts out to lick the remainder of his candyfloss, and this time he's pretty sure it's a ride that doesn't spin. 

"This," Novak decides, wiping the last remnants of pink sugar from his chin and licking his fingers in an almost obscene way, tip of his tongue tracing the ends before he sucks each finger into his mouth. If Andy didn't know better he'd swear Novak was doing it on purpose, all carefully planned to torment him the maximum amount possible.

Evil genius fits Novak better than most other things, albeit one who gets pleasure from small pranks, and planning the afternoon purely for the value of entertainment is exactly the type of thing he'd do.

"Novak, that's for kids."

"And?"

Novak's already bouncing in the direction of the ticket booth, sugar hitting his system in ten seconds flat and Andy's wondering if maybe he should have taken at least a little of the candy floss, because dealing with a hyperactive Novak Djokovic is ten times worse than dealing with just a childish one. It's too late now, resigning himself to the face he's going to be dragged on whatever ride Novak wants. And at least it's not one that spins, he tells himself. And really, he shouldn't be surprised that Novak's picked the most childish ride in the whole fair.

Tickets spill from his hands as he comes back, grinning like the cat who ate the canary and then got the cream on top of it.

"I said ‘look, I'm with Andy Murray' and they gave me tickets for free! I finally found a use for you."

"What, getting you free shit in London? Could have asked me for it before. And you only saved," and he leans over to check the price of the ride, "four pounds. It isn't like they asked you to give them half the money from every match you win."

"It is the... how do you say..."

"Principle, the principle of the matter" he says without a second thought, far more intent on watching the man dressed in wolf's clothing, the one who's been following Novak since the ticket booth and isn't about to give up on it just because Novak's stopped to have a conversation, and he presses a finger to his... well, mask is probably the most appropriate word.

"Exac-" and Novak shrieks as a hand is placed on his shoulder, turning around so fast he almost knocks the man over and though he tries to keep a straight face, the sheer shock on Novak's face making him chuckle and the resulting glare from Novak is definitely worth it, as is the Serbian swearing that follows. He's been called worse, he's sure, and in English no less and this is Novak, who never really means it.

"The haunted house awaits," the wolfman says, gruff voice almost threatening and they let themselves be led closer, the wolfman hovering behind them and now that Andy's the one being followed, he'll admit it's a little creepy and that it was much funnier when it was Novak being stalked.

The wolfman guides them up a set of metal stairs which creaks under their combined weight and Andy's beginning to rethink this plan of letting himself be dragged onto rides. One look behind him and he changes his mind, doesn't want to upset the wolfman and there's no turning back as they're shown to the chair, Novak climbing in without a second thought and Andy follows him a little more warily. The ride is obviously not designed for two adults, they're pressed together but Novak just smirks and wriggles closer. Bar pulled down across their laps, another creak and they move into darkness.

It's not a scary ride, around every corner there's a skeleton or cobwebs or laughter and more darkness, just like he expected there to be. He's more distracted by Novak's shirt glowing bright white under the UV lights, and then by his own shoelaces. Novak's enthralled though, and he still can't work out if it's because he never did this as a child or he still has a mental age of ten, but the next time they're in Paris he's definitely going to take him to Disneyland. Hyperactive child or not, it's endearing to watch a fully grown man enjoy himself so much over something so simple.

Until they turn a corner and there's glow-in-the-dark spiders that jump out at them; Andy's expecting it but Novak's not and the yelp he lets out is enough to make him laugh, just a chuckle at first but the slap on his arm only makes him laugh harder.

"I hate you," he hears Novak mutter, "you do not make this easy, Andy."

Make what easy, he wants to ask once the laughter's stopped, but there's some Serbian whispered in his ear and he still doesn't know but then Novak's kissing him and, yeah, okay, he can probably guess what he doesn't make easy, and also, wow.

Hand curls at the side of his neck, pulling him as close as he can get, stubble scratching across his cheek and chin because apparently Novak had forgotten to shave when he'd concocted this plan of his (or what might have been lack of a plan, he's still not sure), the angle doesn't lend itself to romance or comfort but god, it's good. Novak kisses like his life depends on it, eager and willing and too pliant as Andy tilts his chin up just slightly, and like with most other things he does, there's a sense of childish abandon, a sense that he'll do what he wants and worry about the consequences later. Not that Andy's complaining, maybe about the angle because craning his neck isn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but Novak's like a fucking mindreader or something, shifting just slightly to make it better, and he wants to be off this fucking ride so he can kiss Novak properly with no safety bars and no awkward angles, just him and Novak and maybe one of them pressed against a wall or something.

If that's what Novak wants, because this could just be a way to get him to stop laughing at him.

The ride seems never ending, as does the kiss, they only break away for air. Novak's tongue pushes insistently at his lips and instinctively he parts them, letting out a low moan. He feels Novak grin, and he pulls him closer, cotton of his shirt clenched between his fingers because goddammit, this isn't enough.

The harsh light of the arena interrupts them and guiltily they break apart, Andy checking to make sure that no one who cares saw them, no one that could have incriminating evidence to sell to the papers but apart from the wolfman and the attendant it's near empty, the only other people there are more focussed on their children than on the third and fourth best tennis players in the world. Sheepish looks as they slip out of the ride, Novak softly giggling next to him as he's nudged towards the main entrance to the stadium, jiggling the handle on a side door and there's a triumphant sound as he opens it, pulling them both inside.

"You, ti si budula," Novak starts, dark eyes glinting in the fluorescent lights that line the corridor, and even though he's speaking Serbian he understands completely, because he has been an idiot, "you have wanted me for many years, yes?"

"Fuck off Novak," he says, although he can feel himself blushing from his cheeks to his toes, pale skin hiding nothing and he curses his Scottish heritage not for the first time, "you're not the stud you think you are."

"But you have, how do you say it, fancy me for long time now? You could have brought me home for Christmas."

"I don't think my mother would appreciate that," he says wryly and it's true, mum has never liked Novak, not even when they were playing juniors together and definitely not when Novak was thinking about becoming British. She'd called him a bad influence once, told him not to get involved with such a childish boy but as all teenagers do, he'd ignored his mum's advice and befriended the confident kid who spoke more English than she'd thought.

"Another reason to take me home," Novak murmurs, fingers carefully wrapping around his wrist and suddenly they're pressed together, Novak leaning towards him and they're kissing again with all the eagerness of before, Novak smiling against his mouth, no longer any concern with getting caught because he doesn't care right now. It feels too good to care, despite the fact he knows it won't last with Novak, they'll wind each other up until breaking point but there's always hope that they will, it's worked as friends for so long that this is just another step in their already slightly screwed up relationship.

When Novak shoves his hand down his jeans, rough fingers feels like sparks against his skin, his only thought is fuck yes closely followed by we're going to get caught and he pushes Novak away too quickly, hurt written all over his features before he shakes his head.

"Hotel. We've both got a big bed that needs using."

The hurt turns into relief which turns into happiness, Novak quickly pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before he starts down the hallway to god knows where and although he doesn't particularly want to get lost somewhere underneath the O2, he figures that most hallways have to lead back to one place. It might not be their own personal lockers - and there's an idea, Novak and him sharing a shower in their small private cubicles, one of them on their knees, preferably Novak but he knows that at some point he'll be returning the favour - but it'll be somewhere other than here, where anyone could walk in on them. They can't be the only people needing to use this corridor.

Besides, he's enjoying the time alone, matching Novak pace for pace and if you weren't looking closely you'd never know their fingers brushed with every step they took.

"What sounds better, Andy? Djokray? Novandy?" Novak asks unprompted. Rolling his eyes is second nature but he does it anyway, can't help it because who else would think to make a stupid combined name for them like the Hollywood celebrities get?

"Novak, we're not twelve year old girls," and he takes one look at Novak, shit-eating grin as he sneak-attacks a kiss to his cheek, "I take that back. You are a twelve year old girl."

"Murrayovic?"

Grin forming, because he's never wanted to be with Novak more than in this moment; child at heart but with a heart of gold, and though he can be annoying, there's a wonderful quality that shines through beneath the sometimes brattish exterior.

This, however, is not one of those times, knows that sometimes he's going to have to put up with the twelve year old girl that apparently lives inside Novak, and with a carefully timed shove the Serb ends up tripping, grabbing his shoulder for support.

"Shut up Novak."

And though the words sound harsh, he can't keep the smile off his face.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a quote from Friedrich von Schiller - "Deep meaning often lies in childish plays."


End file.
